Time Passes Me By
by Keltic Banshee
Summary: After the events of Children of Earth, Jack ran to John. Now, he thinks it's time to go back... But is he ready? Follows "Aftermath" and is part of my "Seduction Moves" 'verse
1. 2010: Return

**2010 - Return  
**

"Starting to think it wasn't a good idea?" From the other side of the room, Jack shoots him a death threat condensed in a stare. He shrugs it off and closes the door behind him, keeping his eyes on the view out of the window as he drops his jacket on the chair by the door. Cardiff Bay always looked best from the most expensive suite in the poshest hotel the city has to offer. The one that he managed to secure on _very_ short notice when they arrived in 2010. Jack didn't ask how. He didn't tell.

Shaking his head, Jack lets out a sigh and flops on the bed, hands behind his head, eyes lost in the ceiling. As if conceding defeat before the fight has ever begun. He waits for an answer he knows won't come. So he just takes off his gun belt, sword and all, drops it by the bedside table, and lies beside Jack, propped on his right elbow, looking down, taking in the little details. It's been six months since Jack called him, and he still looks as tired and broken as he did back then. As if he still needed a good night of sleep, a hearty meal and someone to comfort him through the night.

"You knew this wouldn't be easy." Jack nods, absent-mindedly. He places a hand on Jack's chest, warmth seeping through the many layers of clothing. Jack puts a hand on top of his, as if wanting to remind him he is still alive, heart beating under his fingers. "You left, Jack. You left them to fend for themselves for six months before dropping by, picking up your wriststrap and disappearing again." Jack winces. At least, for a change, he is listening. "For Gwen, that was only a month ago. What did you expect, red carpet and a welcome home banner?"

"Not exactly." Jack kicks off his shoes and turns around, moving away from him. He pulls a face and rolls onto his back – Jack will come around, when he wants to. "But I didn't expect her to throw me out either." Yeah, well, it doesn't surprise him that much. Torchwood Three might have taken Jack back after returning from his escapade with that Doctor of his – and if that is who he thinks it is, Jack should be a bit more careful around him – but Gwen may not be so forgiving this time. Even if Jack had all the reasons in the Universe and then some to _need_ to get away.

"So, what's the plan?" Hands behind his head, he stares at the ceiling. "Talk some sense into her? Pull rank and remind her who you are?" To his side, Jack shuffles a bit and moves closer. He brings an arm around him, trying not to think about the still haunted look in Jack's eyes. "Wait until she's out on maternity leave and step in?"

Jack is quiet for a moment. Back in their days in the Agency, he was always talking, even if he rarely said anything. As he loved the sound of his own voice, or found silence unsettling and needed to fill it with something, _anything_. Cue outrageous stories, most of which nobody really ever knew whether they were real. Cue flirting, trying to distract others from him by turning the attention onto them. All of that seems to be gone now. And it hurts to see it. Slowly, he runs a hand through Jack's hair.

"I don't know." He rolls his eyes, almost wishing Jack got his annoying 'I'm-always-right' persona back. "She's stubborn." Pot, kettle, black. Surely Jack knew that when he hired her. "And she's the only one left." It takes a moment before he can figure out what Jack means, then it hits him. The last one of the team Jack recruited. The last one of the people Jack dragged, in one way or another, to the dark and the danger and the times when still having your skin on at the end of the day meant a good day. He can tell Jack is feeling guilty again, about bringing people to a dangerous job that nobody seems to survive for long, without the added bonus – or curse – of immortality.

Except that Jack is completely missing the point, as usual. From the fragments he had managed to piece together, Jack, as is his style, only put the bait in front of them at the right time to bring them to Torchwood. He gave Owen something to do after his whole world was taken from him and all that remained was anger towards just about everything. He gave Toshiko a new lease of life after she played way out of her league and got caught in more trouble than she expected. He gave Suzie a purpose and a place where her abilities where appreciated and needed.

And then there is Ianto, who did his best and then some to get a job at Torchwood Three and, from what he knows, would only have stopped if Jack had killed him or retconned him into oblivion. And apparently Jack _did_ retcon Gwen, only it didn't take. He even gave him – the psychopathic ex-lover, as Ianto once described him – a place in the team. It only took saving the world a couple of times and proving he wouldn't disrupt the team dynamics too much, but eventually, Jack seemed quite happy to have him around.

So, all of them made their choices. But it would seem Jack still hasn't learnt that he is not responsible for other people's decisions, and still likes to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders, even if it kills him. Because, after all, 'he always comes back'. He pulls Jack closer, knowing full well there is no point in mentioning all of this again. Because Jack's already heard it, and does already know. But still blames himself for everything. So he just leaves a kiss on Jack's forehead, and stares out of the window in the vanishing light as the sun sets, and the day ends.

Later, he somehow manages to wrap the covers around them without waking Jack. Maybe in the morning, after a – sort of – good night of sleep, they'll think of something. Or maybe they'll take to the stars and never look back. Both equally unlikely. With a sigh, he closes his eyes. Jack is not the only one who needs some sleep.

* * *

A quiet knock on the door wakes him up. It's not even eight in the bloody morning, so it can't be room service – he left very specific orders, and if there is one thing this hotel seems to take pride in is keeping VIP guests happy. His shoulder complains as he tries to slither away from Jack – he should know by now what holding someone all night long does to him. Eventually, Jack lets go of him, eyes barely open, and he sneaks out of the bed, stretching his hands over his head before grabbing his gun belt and walking to the door, the plush carpet dulling the sound of his boots. He really should have taken them off last night.

Gwen Cooper is definitely the last person he expected to see when he opens the door, right hand resting casually on his gun. She's radiant – he's never quite figured out how all pregnant women manage that – despite looking a bit tired, as if she had had a bad night of sleep. He stares at her for a moment, waiting for her to make the first move. She stares right back, defiant.

"Where's Jack?" He pulls a face. Lets out a sigh. Places a hand on the door frame and leans forward, blocking the way, smiling as if he didn't know what she is talking about. She glares at him. After a while, he looks away, towards Jack, who has just dragged himself out of the bed and onto his feet. When Jack nods, he steps away and lets Gwen in, closing the door behind her. She makes her way to one of the chairs and carefully takes a seat. Her eyes dart all over the room, as if she weren't sure what to do next.

Jack takes a few steps towards her, hands on his pockets, looking a bit less Captain Harkness standing barefoot and coat-less. He takes a deep breath pushing away images of Ianto helping Jack into his coat. Shaking his head, he walks towards Jack and stands beside him, thumbs tucked in his belt. He feels Jack relax just a bit – it's always comforting to have somebody to watch one's back. They wait, until she finally starts speaking.

"If you still want to come back..." She pauses for a second, as if she were wondering whether to apologize. She won't do it, it's not in her nature. At least not when she confronts Jack. "There will always be a place for you in Torchwood, Jack." Jack snorts. No wonder he finds it hard to believe her, after yesterday. After she threw them out not once, but twice: first at what used to be the Hub, where she's still overseeing the clearing and recovery, later at her flat.

"You don't want me here." Jack's voice is cold, and full of pain as it hadn't been for a while. He purses his lips. Maybe his joke was too close to the truth and this _isn't _a good idea. Jack's been through more than enough in the last year. "You made it perfectly clear yesterday." Jack lets out a sigh. "Twice, for good measure."

"You left." Gwen shuffles in her seat, uneasy, and rubs her hands on her legs in a nervous gesture he's seen before. Clasps her hands together when she notices. Takes a deep breath. "You just left me, after... after the 456, and Ianto, and the Hub. I didn't know a thing! No idea where you were, or whether you were coming back..." Jack makes to say something, but closes his mouth again. She stands up, fingers resting lightly on her belly, and plants her feet firmly on the floor. "Then you show up for that wriststrap of yours and just... vanish again." She swallows and looks away, pushing a lock of hair away from her face. "You left me."

So this is what it is all about. Gwen taking it _personally_. He rolls his eyes, and has to bite his tongue. He really doesn't want to get dragged into that conversation. He can be diplomatic when he needs to, but bluntness seems to be the only way to get to some people, and he can be quite good at that when he wants too. And surely PC Cooper would object to a couple of truths being thrown her way.

"I didn't leave _you_, Gwen." There it is again, Jack's patient, teacher-like tone. The one that reminds him of Obi-Wan Kenobi in Star Wars. He can't help the smile. Oh, Jack's face the first time he mentioned it. Pity he didn't manage to take a hologram of it. "I couldn't stay around. Can't you see that?" Gwen gives her a puzzled look. "I killed Steven. My grandson!" Turning around, Jack sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. "I've done my share of despicable things, but that... No wonder Alice wouldn't even tell me she hates me." Jack looks up, and he really can't understand how anybody could not see what he's trying to explain. "Ianto is dead because of _me_. The Hub is gone because of _me_." He gives Gwen a cold stare. "I didn't leave _you_. I just couldn't stay."

Something seems to finally click in her head. Or maybe the pain Jack is trying to hide is finally getting through to her. Tears well in her eyes, and she almost falls back on her chair. He takes a few steps towards Jack, places a soft kiss on his lips – Gwen looks so cute when she tries to discreetly get a glimpse while not looking that it is hard to miss the opportunity – and gives him a smile and a wink before walking to the door.

"I'll be around, buzz me if you two decide to get at each other's throats again." He grabs his jacket. "I wouldn't want to miss the show." He leaves the room, knowing full well that when Jack calls him, Torchwood will be under Captain Harkness once again.

If only everything in life could be as easily solved.


	2. 2020: Broken

**2020 – Broken**

"Starting to think it wasn't a good idea?" He aims for carefree as they walk into Jack's room. He can't help the smile, just like every time. He could have his own room; there's plenty of space in this New Hub – he's pretty sure some of the levels are still completely empty – and after almost ten years on the payroll not even Jack would dare object. But he knows he wouldn't use it. He's not here that often, anyway. And when he is, he always ends up in someone's bed. Mostly – but not solely – Jack's.

Jack takes off his coat and hangs it carefully, almost lovingly, not even looking at him. There's a lot in that simple gesture that speaks of loss and of memories that will never go away – it is, after all, the coat Ianto got for him after the original Hub was blown up, and it looked, or so Jack says, as if life couldn't get any worse. Even back in the day when killing himself was nothing but a pastime after he lost everything that mattered, Jack used to take care of the coat.

He pulls a face, wondering how long it will be until Jack flares up - he can sense the anger bubbling quietly, even from across the room. Not a word on the way back from Roundstone Woods – a place that seems to attract more than its share of Rift activity, strange phenomena and aliens. Not even a sideways look. No banter, no joking, not even a shouting match. If there is something he learnt very early on about Jack is that silent moods are never good news. Even less after...

"Are you planning on sulking until I apologize for whatever I have done?" Barely a whisper, because his throat still hurts – those sodding Ash Hounds have a bloody strong grip, he really should update the file – as he hangs his sword on the wall, unbuckles his belt and drops it by his side of the bed. It never hurts to have weapons handy, even if he sleeps with a couple of sentient knives under his pillow. "You know I've never been one for apologies..." A heartbeat. Two. Three.

"You almost _died_ out there!" Jack doesn't even turn around, busy undoing his boots and kicking them to the corner, where they land with a loud thud. So that is it. He purses his lips, not entirely sure how to tackle this. Yes, he could have handled things differently. He could have waited for Jack and let him go in, save the day as usual. Except that, by the time he got there, the girl the Ash Hounds had taken was almost dead, and there was no fucking time to wait for immortal heroes.

"You die all the time and nobody makes a fuss out of it." Jack spins around and shoots him a death glare. Who is Jack really angry with: himself, or those around him? Shaking his head, Jack undoes a couple of buttons of his shirt, almost ripping them. He raises an eyebrow. He's seen Jack angry with the whole world before. He's seen him slap his own team on the back of the head for taking stupid risks. In fact he did that earlier, before sending them home. But this... this seems different.

"I come back." Words muttered through clenched teeth. He undoes his own boots, fingers sliding on the worn leather, as if he could still feel the touch of each and every lover who has helped him out of them in the past. Shaking his head, he looks at Jack, not entirely sure what the Hell is going on tonight. They've had near misses and close shaves before. Even back in the day, when they were still in the Agency. The whole team have put their lives on the line before; sometimes they've been lucky, sometimes they've not – they've buried way too many people in the last ten years. Because even a single life cut short would have been one too many.

"Missing the bloody point, as usual." Will Jack ever get it? He must know the toll it takes on those around him every fucking time he dies. Must have seen it in Ianto's eyes, back in the day. Hell, he even tried to spare the kid a death or two by asking him to... He shakes his head again, sending the memories away. Jack knows. Either that, or he's a much bigger idiot than he thought. In the silence, something clatters on the floor. A small button rolls towards him and stops right between his feet. Someone is losing his patience and, for once, it isn't him.

"What is the bloody point, then?" When he looks at Jack again, the blue shirt is gone, the braces are hanging front the waistband of his trousers, and he's pulling the white t-shirt over his head as he spits venom. One day, maybe, Jack will stop dressing as if this were still the 1940s. Maybe by 2040, with a bit of luck.

"You _die_." He lets out a sigh and tries not to cringe as he stands up, barefoot, and walks to Jack. "Even if you come back, Jack, you bloody _die_." They stare at each other, unwavering. If Jack wants truth, truth he'll get. "You lie there, dead, covered in blood, guts out, bullet hole in you head, whatever it is, but _dead_." And it hurts. And the mountain of what ifs and maybes doesn't get any smaller every time it happens. "And the rest of us have to deal with that, you fucking idiot."

Jack looks away, pursing his lips and shaking his head as he curls his hands into fists. He can almost _hear_ the thoughts flying, the rage building up. He coils, half-expecting Jack to jump on him, push him against the wall or even throw him to the ground. Whether that would end in a bloody fight or rough sex has never been easy to tell, although given the mood Jack seems to be in, he'd bet on the fight. If he were a betting man.

He smirks when Jack takes a couple of steps towards him. Shifts his weight, expecting the first blow. Ducks a couple of punches, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline. Puts on his best smile, enjoying the high and wondering how long it will take until Jack calms down. Throws his whole body forward in a move design to bring his enemy down, hands sliding on skin as Jack steps away, and it takes all his reflexes to stay on his feet and spin around to face Jack again.

For a few moments, they circle each other. Just like the old days. Looking for a weak point, an uneven step, anything that would provide an advantage. Eventually, Jack just opens his hands and pushes him, sending him stumbling back and almost losing his footing as he bangs his head on the wall with a loud crack. It probably sounds worse than it feels, judging by the change in Jack's expression.

Tilting his head to stretch his neck, he plants his feet firmly on the floor and raises an eyebrow, eyes still on Jack. Rage and anger seem to vanish from Jack's face almost as quickly as they appeared, even if the tightly-pressed lips still remain; his knuckles are white again, and he must be digging his hands into his own palms. Not even moving. Not even threatening. Just standing there.

"Oh, come on, Jack." He takes a couple of steps forward, trying to make eye contact. "At least _pretend _that you mean it, will you?" Jack, stubbornly, keeps staring at his own feet. "You are angry. Let it out." He walks closer, close enough to feel Jack's breath on his skin, and opens his arms, all invitation. Sex or fight, either will do him, as long as Jack does _something_, and stops trying to control himself. "Oh, by the goddesses..."

He never finishes the sentence. Not that he can remember what he was going to say after Jack pushes him against the wall. One hand pressed firmly on his throat, keeping him in place yet not even close to cutting his air, the other having a fight with the buttons on his jeans. Teeth on his shoulder, the one where the scar from the Garg'kat bite is still visible. A knee between his legs, more intention than anything else. Why in the Seven Universes is Jack holding back?

"You can do better than that, love." Teasing. Taunting. Jack hates nicknames; this alone should be enough to make him snap given the bad mood he seems to be in, but it isn't. All he gets is a punch on the wall, a good few inches away from his head. So he pushes back, hands flat on smooth skin, rolling his eyes as Jack takes a step back. With a sigh, he throws him onto the bed, using his body weight to keep him still. Not that Jack is putting up much of a fight, which is equal parts disappointing and worrying. "Seriously, Jack, could you at least _try_? You are no fun these days..."

Suddenly, he's lying on his back, Jack towering up above him, pulling at his t-shirt and almost strangling him with it. He can't help the grin – that's more like it. A hand sneaks inside his jeans. Teeth trail down his throat, barely there, but enough to make him shiver. The ever present heat that always seems to surround Jack makes him yearn for more. He rakes nails on Jack's sides, on his back, on any inch of skin he can find, filling the room with hisses and hitched breaths. For a moment, it almost seems like everything is getting back to normal. He could almost forget Jack's stubbornness.

A droplet, hot and wet, hits his chest. Then another. There's a crimson dot on his skin when he looks down. Swallowing hard, he brings his hands to Jack's cheeks. Carefully forces him to look up, feeling the initial resistance melt under soft words. A knot tightens in his throat at the sight of Jack struggling to hold back the tears, teeth biting on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He runs a thumb along Jack's jawline, feeling him lean onto the touch and try to look away at the same time.

And then, it all clicks in place in his head. The haunted look that he hadn't seen for quite a while. The anger. Jack's reaction when his head hit the wall. Jack pushes one of his arms away; he grabs Jack's hand and places it on his chest, right over his heart, and covers it with his own. A gesture Jack himself has made countless times since they have been together. A gesture Jack used to share with Ianto, back when Torchwood was the old gang. A gesture only now he really understands.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't even know what he could say. How could he reason with Jack's not-so-sudden yet still annoying protective streak? How could he explain to His Immortalness that he _chose_ this fucking job, and deadly hazards are part of the job description? How could he explain that he could be anywhere else, doing anything – and anybody – else, but he _wants_ to be here, and even if he were somewhere else, he wouldn't be any safer? How could he remind Jack that not even Captain Harkness can save everybody, all the time, not even those he cares about?

So he just does what he's done so many times before, what Jack's done so many times when the mighty John Hart was the one having doubts about life, the Universe, and everything else. Drags him close, keeping Jack's hand over his heart. Kisses him, softly, carefully running his tongue over the still-bleeding wound. Shushes Jack when he tries to move away. And he can't help but think back to Ianto, who so wonderfully explained it: Captain Harkness scares the Hell out of Jack. Well, not the Captain per se, more the consequences of what he has to do for the greater good, and the future of Humanity, yada yada, so on and so forth, standard Torchwood induction pack bullshit.

Slowly, Jack relaxes in his arms. Just a bit. The rest will take a while, a good round of sex – or two – and preferably no more life-or-death situations for the rest of the week. So he just pats Jack's back, reassuring.

"Are you... planning on getting upset like that every time I come close to getting a scratch?" He aims for lighthearted and for once it comes out right. "Cos, if you are, I'll have you know, I want a pay rise." Jack raises his head, intrigued, and looks at him. "Dealing with smothering motherly love was _not_ in the job description." Jack snorts. Bites his shoulder, more playful intention than actual teeth.

"It's not motherly love." He can't help the smirk as Jack pulls a face and babbles away, all half-finished excuses and reasons. It takes a while before he feels the familiar weight of Jack's head on his shoulder as they both shift into a more comfortable position. "I just..." He places a finger on Jack's lips.

He already suspects too much. Sometimes, it's better not to know.


	3. 2030: Present

2030 – Present

"Starting to think it wasn't a good idea?" As he runs down the dark street, eyes set on the Weevil a few metres ahead of him, Jack's steps clattering behind him, he can't help the taunting and the teasing. In the last couple of years, Weevils have become... agitated. Restless. Attacks are more frequent, more violent, more daring, some even in broad daylight in busy areas of a town he still has trouble recognizing as the Cardiff he almost destroyed. In short, running after three of the creatures on their own never was a good idea. Even if it managed to put a smile on Jack's face. One that almost seems genuine. Almost feels like the good old days.

"It wouldn't be if you could keep up." Ah, the banter! A blur of blue as Jack passes him by, coat tails flying in the air behind him as they turn into an alley. He pulls a face and narrows his eyes, somehow finding the energy to speed up and regain his ground. He's panting. It's been quite some time since capturing _anything_ involved this much running about. And he's enjoying every moment of it.

He looks around when they come to the dead end of the alley. Checks the few doors in the walls, only to find them locked, and looking as if they hadn't been opened in quite some time. No exit, no hiding place, yet the Weevils they were following are nowhere to be seen. He pulls a face and shrugs. Maybe they took the sewers. It's not like they haven't done that before.

"Are you sure they came this way?" Even though he did clearly see the Weevils take the turning, he's not going to let a good chance to annoy Jack slip by. "It wouldn't be the first time..." He never gets to finish the sentence. Before he knows it, Jack's drawn his weapon – a stylish, Torchwood-issue handgun – and is pointing towards him. Any other person on the planet would probably get a bullet between the eyes – or a taste of his newly found friends, the taser and the stun gun – before they get a chance to explain themselves. But there is only one reason Jack would aim in his direction. With a trust that stems from too many close shaves together, he raises an eyebrow and, in one swift moment, spins around and draws his twin pistols, pointing the beauties towards... "Oh, by the Goddesses, do these things never get bored?"

In front of him, a pack of Ash Hounds – five werewolf-like creatures, all ashen thick fur and bright golden, cat-like eyes – is cutting off the only way out of the alley. Two of them are standing on their hind legs, a predatory look about them. The others are slowly pushing forward, circling in complex patterns that never leave a gap to jump through. He fights the urge to roll his eyes – these things move too fast for that.

"Ready?" There's a hint of something in Jack's voice that brings him back. To times when alien wolves that suck the living lights out of their prey and leave nothing but ashes behind were just an easy day. He nods, carefully taking aim, knowing the first volley of shots is crucial with Hounds – he still remembers the last time he missed and gave one of them a chance to grab him. He nods, takes a deep breath, and shoots, hitting the two upright creatures in the head. Before their bodies hit the ground, he shoots again, killing another one that falls almost on top of the one Jack just shot. Not a clean kill, by any means, but there's only so much he can do with a target that moves that fast.

He turns towards an angry growl that tells him one is still alive, and finds it too close to Jack for comfort – at that distance, from this angle, if he shoots he'll probably get Jack as well. So he puts away his guns and reaches into his boot, bringing out one of his favourite knives, and throws it, stabbing the Hound in the neck. Barely a moment later, two shots ring in the alley, and it falls dead to the ground. He tries to push away the memories of the only other pair of hands ever to handle that knife. As usual, when it concerns Ianto, he can't.

"However cuddly these things may look, try to remember the teeth and claws and all that for the next time, will you?" He walks casually towards the creature and retrieves and cleans the knife before sliding it back in its place, ghosts of memories still curling around him. "I don't fancy having to carry you back to the Hub and having to put up with an overbearing doctor telling _me_ off every time you get hurt."

Jack shoots him a death glare for a second before dragging him in for a kiss, all teeth and energy and promises of much more, soon. He sneaks his hands under Jack's coat, pulling him closer, bodies close together. There is something about surviving that makes every fibre in his body tingle with want. Always has, and hopefully always will. Jack seems to – finally – be getting to a point where he feels it again. Sometimes. When he pulls away, Jack runs a finger down the side of his neck, and he shivers.

"These bloody guns are unreliable." Jack takes a step back, stowing the weapon on his holster, the one piece of his uniform to look out of place. Even almost a century later, Jack still wouldn't look out of place in a 1941 ballroom, except for his side arm. His lips curl in the beginning of a smile. Maybe there is something he can do about that. Once they get the Hounds back to the Hub.

* * *

The Hub is still empty and quiet – or as quiet as this place ever manages to be – when he grabs his first mug of coffee from the small kitchen and makes his way to the stairs. Sitting on them, back resting on the wall, he can keep an eye on Jack's office without being too obvious, and annoy the Hell out of everybody else in the team as they start their days and demand caffeine. Some things never change. He can't help but smile - not unlike the original under the Plass, this new incarnation of Torchwood's super-secret underground sci-fi base is full of small noises that almost make it feel alive. And he quite likes it like this.

When Jack eventually emerges from the depths of the Hub, he hides the smirk behind his mug, and pretends to be deeply interested in the steps around him until Jack walks into his office. Behind the glass, the daily routine slowly unfurls: head shakes at the empty mugs littering the place, the piles of reports still to be dealt with – will Jack ever stop insisting on hard copies of everything? – and cursory check at incoming demands from people in different high places to be told things they are better off not knowing. It takes a few minutes before Jack finally notices the package sitting in the middle of his desk.

He swallows hard, resisting the urge to jump down the stairs and see Jack's reaction as he opens it from up close. But he's got a good enough view from here. So he watches as Jack carefully scans the parcel with his wriststrap, making sure it's harmless. Watches as Jack stills halfway through lifting the lid, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. Tilting his head, he allows himself a smile, all too aware of the surprise in Jack's face. Watches as Jack brings out the Webley, slowly running a finger along it, almost caressing it, thoroughly checking it.

He doesn't look away when Jack lifts his head and looks towards him. He holds his gaze and smiles when Jack nods at him. He knows Jack understands why he did it. And Ianto, who always recognized Jack's needs for his own suit of armour, would approve.


End file.
